Professional Responsibility

Walter Walker, A Dime to Dance By 36-43 (New York: Harper & Row, 1985)

<1> Does Chuckie Bishop, the lawyer interviewing Richie DelVecchio in A Dime to Dance By, go too far and cross the line between counseling the client and soliciting perjury?

<2> After the discussion about how the shooting takes place, and Bishop has helped his client shape a story that will provide him a defense, Bishop says, "[a]t this point Richie DelVecchio had given himself over to me." [42] What do you think Bishop is talking about here?

<3> Compare the approach Chuckie Bishop takes in his representation of Richie DelVecchio with the lawyers in the following excerpts:

 Frederick Busch, Closing Arguments 38-43 (New York: Penguin Books, 1992)  

     I looked at my client. She was small, short, and slender, very pale. Her hair was the color of what you'd get if you mixed the tones of a just-washed carrot with the dark gray of one of those wet river stones from the bottom. It was very glossy, very red-orange, her eyelashes were pale, her brows a little darker. Her face was square, verging on thin, and her long, narrow nose made it look thinner. Her eyes were very large, either brown or some kind of green-with-brown, I couldn't tell. She had stubby fingers on small hands. She kept her hands, as instructed, on the table. She had them clasped and on the edge. In her short-sleeved, collarless aquamarine polyester prison-issue housecoat, she looked bony and ill. It wasn't her best color.
     "Estrella," I said. "Or is it Ms. Estrella? They weren't clear on the phone. Marcus Brennan. I am appointed by the court to represent you and to advise you. There isn't a fee, the public defender's office is picking up the tab. Well, there isn't a tab. We take turns. I'm volunteering. What I'm trying to say, don't worry about money, all right? Except: do you have any money?"
     She smiled. It was pretty washed out. She was exhausted, and she probably hadn't slept. The smile went away. She said, "I have very little money. I'll give you what I have."
     "No," I said. "I was wondering about bail. I don't know what the circumstances are yet--the charges? So I don't know if we're talking suspicion, presence at the scene, et cetera. Suspicion, and with a good record, maybe we can make bail. But you need the whole sum, or you have to give the bondsman a percentage--"
     One of her little hands was in the air. I waited. She said, "I was on the scene. I called 911, the sheriff sent a car, the Randall police sent a car, the state police rolled in a little while after they did. Everybody took turns trying to arrest me first. I told them--"
     I slammed the table. She jumped. The guard made adenoid noises. "Sorry," I said. "I'm not angry at you. I was assured that your rights had been protected."
     "I don't have any rights," she said. "I don't need them."
     "That makes it easier," I said. "They'd prefer you not to have rights."
     The guard muttered and I said to her, "Your career is on the edge, lady. Say one word, now or later, make one move on or near my client at any time, and I will see that you become the substitute German shepherd for the arson squad. You will spend your middle years on your hands and knees with your tail in the air, sniffing for flammables at building fire sites. Understand?"
     I turned back to my client. She was beaming. Color came into her face, even her lips, which had been quite pale. Her eyes looked lively for an instant.
     She said, "What?"
     "You looked very pretty. That's what."
     I watched the color drain. "Great," she said.
     "Yes. Okay. I'll find out what the arresting officers said, and the scene-of-crime people. That'll mostly be state, with some stuff, maybe photography, done here. I'll make sure--they did Mirandize you, didn't they?"
     "The reading-you-your-rights thing?"
     I nodded.
     "After a while. In the car, going back, I think."
     "I'm going to leave you a pad and a pen. I want you to write down the sequence of things that happened when the police came. Everything that happened, words you remember, things they said, things you said, from the time you called the Guard frequency.
     "The what?"
     "Sorry. The 911."
     "All right."
     "I want to take a long statement from you. But just for me. I'll write it all down on another one of these yellow legal pads, okay? Just for you and me to use, nobody else."
     "All right."
     "But what I want you to tell me now is, did you do whatever they're going to tell me you did?"
     "Yes."
     "Did you want to do it?"
     "Yes."
     "Did you plan to do it?"
     "I thought about it. You know, I thought once--more than once: I said to myself, I might end up killing the guy."
     "Did you plan it out?"
     "Are you kidding?"
     "That's right. I don't know the particulars, do I? Ms. Estrella--"
     "It's Estella."
     "Sorry."
     "Estella is my, it's my first name. My last name is Pritchett. Estella Pritchett."
     I wrote it down on my legal pad.
     "Who'd they say you killed?"
     "A man. A person I'd been seeing."
     "A lover?"
     She nodded. Her face was dark again.
     "Your lover's name?"
     "Lawrence Ziegler."
     "Larry Ziegler? You were dating Larry?"
     "I was sleeping with Larry once a week. I work, I used to work, I guess, with the Department of Social Services. I live outside of Dolgeville, in the hills. I swung through here every week, seeing certain clients. I used to meet him at that horrible motel they never paint."
     "Yeah, yeah, the--the Rock Run, the Stone's Throw. Right? Stone's Throw. God. It's a dreadful place. You used to meet him there. And?"
     "We made love."
     "Regularly."
     "Yes."
     "Now, Larry Ziegler. We're talking about the man who owns -- owned -- the radio station in Randall?"
     "It's a terrible station, isn't it?"
     "Light and Easy Bad Rock 'n Roll of the Last Hundred Years or something. I can't listen to it. I get headaches from the DJs. They can't talk English. They don't know how to read it.
     "Larry trained them personally."
     "So how come you ended up, you know--"
     "There's a question. I met him at a Rotary luncheon. I went with a marshall to serve a subpoena on the father of one of my clients. He was, he -- how do I say fucking his daughter?"
     "That's a reasonable facsimile right there."
     "He was the usual barbarian. We served him. Larry got in his way when he went after me. After he knocked the marshal down."
     "He was a big man."
     "Yes, he was."
     "Strong."
     "Yes. What's wrong?"
     "Nothing. Nothing."
     "You were thinking of me and Larry. He's so, he was so tall and broad. You're not that much smaller than he is, are you?"
     "But we're not in bed."
     "No, we're not. We're in jail."
     "Tell me."
     "Excuse me?"
     "Tell me what happened. We'll go over all of this, everything, later. Again. Many times. But now, tell me what you did. What he did, what you did, you know.
     "You look at me--you think I'm some stupid rich man's piece of ass, the way you look at me."
     "Estella. Ms. Pritchett. You're nobody's except the county's right now. You're not even your own self's self. The only judgment passed will be by the jury."
     "There's a trial?" she said.
     "My aching ass," the guard said.
     I turned and I pointed at her. She backed up a step. I turned to Estella. She was smiling that same smile. It went away, the color went away, and she said, "I was feeling sorry for myself. I apologize. And I can't blame you for your opinions. Didn't I just work very hard to earn them?"
     "Forget my opinions. Tell me what you did."
     "And you'll try and tell a jury I didn't?" We'll actually have a trial--"
     "Go to trial, it's called."
     "And you'll say to them I didn't do it?"
     "Maybe," I said. "When we figure out what truth we're telling, then we'll work on how to tell somebody that particular truth."

 Harold Mehling, Assumption of Guilt 19-22 (New York: Jove Books, 1993)

Hull introduced himself to Laurie Boles, then asked the court clerk for a copy of the indictment. The veteran clerk had seen horrendous crimes portrayed in the courtroom, but this was the worst by far. She shook her head and handed him the document, then led lawyer and defendant into the jury room and closed the door behind them.

Hull sat at the table around which fates were decided and read the indictment word for word. As he finished the first paragraph, his head came up and he looked at his client with astonishment. She was staring ahead. He finished the document, then read it again and sat silently, sullen questions ricocheting through his head....

Aware that he was stalling to avoid a distasteful conversation, he surveyed his client. Her ash-blond hair was trimmed compactly and there was a fullness to cheeks that flanked a nose slightly on the small side. Finally he said, "I want to ask you a couple of things, Miss Coles. Have you been asked any questions about these charges? And have you said anything to the police?"

"The detective only said he had a warrant for my arrest." She had a cool voice, soft but clear.

"Did they read you your rights?"

That did not have to be explained these days. "A policeman read something that sounded like that."

"Did they ask you any questions at the police station?"

"No."

"Okay, here's the rule. You don't answer any questions unless your lawyer is present.

'Now, I have to tell you these allegations they've made sound very specific. I mean, as if they think they've got a lot of evidence."

She shook her head and looked away.

Hull nodded at a response that did nothing to ease his task. He looked down at the indictment and said, "I know the prosecutor, Pete Harmon. He's a careful guy. He wouldn't go to trial without hard stuff. Follow me?"

She said, "I didn't do it."

He nodded again. "Here's something to think about. When the D.A. gives me his witness list, we're going to see names of children from Snug Arms, and names of their mothers and fathers. Now, they're going to say you did things, when they testify." He hesitated. "They're going to swear to it, under oath. You know what I'm saying?"

She did not reply.

Hull's reasonableness persisted. "I'm taking your word for what you tell me. But we're up against a big problem. People talk, and they say a lot of things when they're angry. They panic and get each other going. Harmon knows that. He's too smart to bring charges he thinks a jury wouldn't believe. So he'll press the strongest ones. Now, look around you. This is the room the jurors will sit in after they hear all the testimony. I'm sorry, but that's how it is."

She had swiveled away, but she suddenly turned back and said, "I didn't do it!"

He sighed. How about a surprise, for once. "I didn't say you did. I said it's reality time. I have to tell you the facts. If they go to a verdict, you could get the limit. In the big place." He realized he was banging the table with his pen and took a time out. Could this rap be beaten? Coles seemed likable enough with those big, appealing eyes and a healthy look. Why would she fuck with infants? He could imagine the wind-up of his summation to the jury: "If there ever was a case of confusion, surely that's what we have here, ladies and gentlemen. We know children have the greatest imaginations in the world. Give them an idea and they'll run wild with it. Let's remember that as we consider this case. As you judge this young woman, consider that no one, no one at all, may be guilty in this matter. We have an innocent defendant, and children who don't mean to harm anyone. Bless them. But we can't take Miss Coles's liberty away on the strength of wild stories."

Still, there was a bigger problem. The pressure would be enormous. This town did not want to hear fancy talk and it didn't want the children of Hudson Ferry put down as a pack of liars. The folks wanted to hear guilty. The town was at war, and Hull could become a casualty.

"Look, Miss Coles. I want this to come out the best it can for you. But there may be a limit to what we can do. I can talk to the prosecutor. He'd probably drop the toughest charges and the judge would go along. You'd be out in two years, three or four at the outside. Maybe you should think about that."

Hull saw pleading eyes and felt uncomfortable. "In the end, he said, "it's your plea. You'll decide and I'll stand up and say it. But I have to go through these things with you. And all that's left except not guilty is a plea of temporary insanity. It happens to people, and sometimes the jury buys it. You'd say you can't remember anything." He paused. "I mean, if that's true. It might give you a chance."

She turned to him and said, "I didn't do it."

"Let's go back in," he said.

 

 John Grisham, A Time to Kill 68-71 (Tarrytown, New York: Wynwood Press, 1989)  

The lawyer, Jake Brigance, represents Carl Lee Hailey, who has been charged with murder and assault on a police officer. Carl Lee's ten year old daughter, Tonya, was brutally and viciously raped by two men. Carl Lee, seeking revenge (and what he thought was justice), shot and killed the two men in the courthouse following their arrest for the rape. During the shooting, a sheriff's deputy was accidently wounded in the leg. The lower pair of the deputy's leg had to be amputated as a result of the wounds.

The defendant, Carl Lee, knows Jake Brigance. Jake has successfully represented his brother, Lester, in a murder case. Carl Lee knew Jake well enough to tell him before the shooting that he was going to kill the boys that raped his daughter. Carl Lee told Jake Brigance before the shooting that when he killed the boys he wanted him to represent him. Jake urged him not to do it and told him point blank it would not be an easy case even if a jury could be convinced that there are times when a person wants to take justice in their own hands.

Carl Lee, ignoring his lawyer's advice, shot the men who raped his daughter and is now in jail.

* * * *

The lawyer and client sat across the table and analyzed each other carefully. They grinned admiringly but neither spoke. They had last talked five days before, on Wednesday after the preliminary hearing [of the two men charged with Tonya's rape], the day after the rape.

Carl Lee was not as troubled now. His face was relaxed and his eyes were clear. Finally he said: "You didn't think I'd do it, Jake."

"Not really. You did do it?"

"You know I did."

Jake smiled, nodded, and crossed his arms. "How do you feel?"

Carl Lee relaxed and sat back in the folding chair. "Well I feel better. I don't feel good 'bout the whole thing. I wish it didn't happen. But I wish my girl was okay too, you know. I didn't have nothin' against them boys till they messed with her. Now they got what they started. I feel sorry for their mommas and daddys, if they got daddys, which I doubt."

"Are you scared?"

"Of what?"

"How about the gas chamber?"

"Naw, Jake, that's why I got you. I don't plan to go to no gas chamber. I saw you get Lester off, now just get me off. You can do it, Jake."

"It's not quite that easy, Carl Lee."

"Say what?"

"You just don't shoot a person, or persons, in cold blood, and then tell the jury they needed killing, and expect to walk out of the courtroom."

"You did with Lester."

"But every case is different. And the big difference here is that you killed two white boys and Lester killed a nigger. Big difference."

"You scared, Jake?"

"Why should I be scared? I'm not facing the gas chamber."

"You don't sound too confident."

You big stupid idiot, thought Jake. How could he be confident at a time like this. The bodies were still warm. Sure, he was confident before the killings, but now it was different. His client was facing the gas for a crime which he admits he committed."

"Where'd you get the gun?"

"A friend in Memphis."

"Okay. Did Lester help?"

"Nope. He knew 'bout what I's gonna do, and he wanted to help, but I wouldn't let him."

"How's Gwen [Carl Lee's wife]?"

"She's pretty crazy right now, but Lester's with her. She didn't know a thing bout it."

"The kids?"

"You know how kids are. They don't want their daddy in jail. They upset, but they'll make it. Lester'll take care of them."

"Is he going back to Chicago?"

"Not for a while. Jake, when do we go to court?"

"The preliminary should be tomorrow or Wednesday, depends on Bullard."

"Is he the judge?"

"He will be for the preliminary hearing. But he won't hear the trial. That'll be in Circuit Court."

"Who's the judge there?"

"Omar Noose from Van Buren County; same judge who tried Lester."

"Good. He's okay ain't he?"

"Yeah, he's a good judge."

"When will the trial be?

"Late summer or early fall. Buckley will push for a quick trial."

"Who's Buckley?"

"Rufus Buckley. District attorney. Same D.A. who prosecuted Lester. You remember him. Big, loud guy--"

"Yeah, yeah, I remember. Big bad Rufus Buckley. I'd forgot all about him. He's pretty mean ain't he?"

"He's good, very good. He's corrupt and ambitious, and he'll eat this up because of the publicity."

"You've beat him, ain't you?"

"Yeah, and he's beat me."

Jake opened his briefcase and removed a file. Inside was a contract for legal services, which he studied although he had it memorized. His fees were based on the ability to pay, and the blacks would generally pay little unless there was a close and generous relative in St. Louis or Chicago with a good-paying job. Those were rare. . . . Carl Lee owned a few acres around his house and had mortgaged it to help Lester pay Jake before.

He had charged Lester five thousand for his murder trial; half was paid before trial and the rest in installments over three years.

Jake hated to discuss fees. It was the most difficult part of practicing law. Clients wanted to know up front, immediately, how much he would cost, and they all reacted differently. Some were shocked, some just swallowed hard, a few had stormed out of his office. Some negotiated, but most paid or promised to pay.

He studied the file and the contract and thought desperately of a fair fee. There were other lawyers out there who would take such a case for almost nothing. Nothing but publicity. He thought about the acreage, and the job [Carl Lee has] at the paper mill, and the family, and finally said, "My fee is ten thousand."

Carl Lee was not moved. "You charged Lester five thousand."

Jake anticipated this. "You have three counts; Lester had one."

"How many times can I go to the gas chamber?"

"Good point. How much can you pay?"

"I can pay a thousand now," he said proudly. "And I'll borrow as much as I can on my land and give it all to you."

Jake thought a minute. "I've got a better idea. Let's agree on a fee. You pay a thousand now and sign a note for the rest. Borrow on your land and pay against the note."

"How much you want?" asked Carl Lee.

"Ten thousand."

"I'll pay five."

"You can pay more than that."

"And you can do it for less than ten."

"Okay, I can do it for nine."

"Then I can pay six."

"Eight?"

"Seven."

"Can we agree on seventy-five hundred?"

"Yeah, I think I can pay that much. Depends on how much they'll loan me on my land. You want me to pay a thousand now and sign a note for sixty-five hundred?"

"That's right."

"Okay, you got a deal."

Jake filled in the blanks in the contract and promissory note, and Carl Lee signed both.

"Jake, how much would you charge a man with plenty of money?"

"Fifty thousand."

"Fifty thousand! You serious?"

"Yep."

"Man, that's a lotta money. You ever get that much?"

"No, but I haven't seen too many people on trial for murder with that kind of money."

Carl Lee wanted to know about his bond, the grand jury, the trial, the witnesses, who would be on the jury, when could he get out of jail, could Jake speed up the trial, when could he tell his version, and a thousand other questions. Jake said they would have plenty of time to talk. He promised to call Gwen and his boss at the paper mill.

He left and Carl Lee was placed in his cell, the one next to the cell for state prisoners.

Note: On "coaching" a witness, see the film, "Anatomy of a Murder" (1959).